Beneath the Midnight Sky
by eirene
Summary: A deathfic. Centers on Trowa and Quatre. I can't say much more unless you read it :)


Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing. I am not making any money off of it. You know this.  
  
  
  
Title: Beneath the Midnight Sky  
  
His eyes were closed. Trowa had looked at his lover's closed eyes many times, in the dark, deep in sleep. Watched as his eyelids twitched, disturbed by brutal dreams and feelings that he tucked away until the moon began it's midnight reign. Stared as his lips opened and emitted a barely audible cry, face contorted in pain. Trowa would wrap the small, sleeping body in his arms, giving his warmth for comfort, just to let him know. To tell his subconscious that he was there, his love was there, and there it would stay. Quatre's face would relax and he would sigh, and the sharpness of the dreams would dull, though the pain. and the terror. they would remain.  
  
Unlike his fellow pilots, Quatre had retained the gift of acute, honest feeling during and after the war. For better or for worse, all of the horror encountered by his friends would be borne in his heart, beneath the sunless sky. He endured an aching in his chest, where the others felt none. He hid wells of tears where the others had none. But Quatre, for all of this silent suffering, would not have changed it, for with the ability to feel pain so purely also came the ability to feel love, and hope, and need. Trowa knew this better than anyone.  
  
But now his eyes were closed. And they weren't opening anymore.  
  
The wake had been private. Heero had betrayed no emotion, but to place a consolatory hand on Trowa's shoulder. Wufei had murmured an ancient Chinese blessing over the body. Duo had made the wise decision of keeping silent, and various friends of Quatre had expressed their sorrow.  
  
They were gone now, as it was now very late in the evening. Everyone was gone, except for Trowa. He sat on a plush loveseat, richly upholstered in patterned velvet, positioned near the door. The coffin was on the opposite end of the room, surrounded by glowing, white tallow candles and baskets of bright desert flowers. It was a beautiful display; but Trowa could not force his body to move close enough to look into the open casket so there he sat, refusing to let them close or move it, but not quite willing to say goodbye. To look at the ashen, motionless body, to acknowledge the young man's exodus from life, would be admitting defeat to a force too large to fight, and he wasn't sure he was able to do it.  
  
For the first time in a long time, Trowa felt moved to cry, but was not surprised when he found no tears would come. A knot bobbed up and down in his throat, while another contorted his stomach and stole his breath, but no relief made itself discernible. This, he could not accept. This, he could not ignore. He hung his head and closed his eyes. Quatre had been the strongest of all, having survived the unique burden of emotions, and balanced the beautiful with the terrible, and lived as an innocent and a murderer, whereas Trowa felt threatened to be swallowed by the pain and disappear into nothing. Never before had he been so intrinsically connected with another human being, and not since he was a baby had be ever been subjected to such a grand loss.  
  
Now there was nothing. No war. No love. No mission. No purpose. What would he do?  
  
Suddenly Trowa felt a warm hand on his cheek.  
  
"You'll do what you have to do." There was Quatre, appearing unnervingly solid and. real. Trowa looked up, startled.  
  
"I can't remember what I'm supposed to be. My identity has lost me again."  
  
"You'll find it," Quatre murmured. And then he was gone again.  
  
I am losing my mind.  
  
Slowly, Trowa stood and looked around. He stared at the casket opposite him, as though waiting for Quatre to yawn, stretch his arms, and crawl out, a smile on his lips. A sensation of complete emptiness and aloneness in the room answered his subconscious fantasy and killed it. He toyed with the idea of taking one last look at his love, with the soft, vivid expressions he was accustomed to, erased clean, and the flush on his skin falsely painted with make-up. At least then he could say goodbye.  
  
No; he would remember him the way he was.  
  
And Trowa left the room, and the building, and stepped into the glow of the moon, the ghost of Quatre close by his side. 


End file.
